


since hunger taught us wit (we know war to the bone)

by ScribeofArda



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Being a spy isn't always glamorous, But all fluff in the end, Discussion of PTSD, Discussion of wetwork, Dive headfirst into the garbage pile of tropes, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I can't stay away from the tropes, I don't think any of you care though, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Napoleon caring for Illya, Napoleon worrying over Illya, bc he loves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-02-28 19:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13278090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: We've been in this game a long time. We both know what we're doing.It's not like it is in the movies. It is rarely as glamorous as Hollywood makes it out to be, fewer tuxes and even fewer good men with good convictions, doing what is undoubtedly known to be right. Their world is a thousand shades of grey, and sometimes, they're asked to do things that nobody wants to do.“The moment that you start to like carrying out wetwork,” he tells Gaby, “is the moment you retire from the field.”Illya's skill set is called upon. Gaby has some issues with what he's asked to carry out, but Napoleon understands. And he's there to take care of whatever aftermath there is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, being vaguely on time with publishing something. This isn't a long story, it's something that was meant to be a oneshot about 3k in length and ended up nearly 10k (this is a recurring theme with me, I'm impossible when it comes to word counts). General warnings for discussion of wetwork- essentially sanctioned assassinations- and PTSD, though they call it something else, as that word hadn't been invented yet.
> 
> This story is set about a year after the events of the movie, and goes off the assumption that Gaby was essentially a sleeper agent until the events of the movie, so has actually had very little real experience in the spy world. As such, there are some things that Illya and Napoleon are pretty much accustomed to, that she is not.
> 
> The title comes from the poem The Forgotten Soldier, by E.L. Mayo.

“Where’s Illya?”

Napoleon glances up from the reports strewn across his desk as Gaby breezes into the office. “Why?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and blinking. He’s been staring at reports for hours now, trying to connect frail threads between the different sets of information and tease out a pattern, but for now it’s eluding him. It’s frustrating work, and he thinks he can still see the typewriter font in front of his eyes as he looks up at her.

Gaby perches on the edge of Illya’s desk on the other side of the office, and Napoleon swivels his chair to face her. “I wanted his opinion on something,” she says, picking up the lockpick set on Illya’s desk and fiddling with it. Napoleon glances at his own desk and the clutter across it: a framed photo of him and Illya from Madrid, various souvenirs and trinkets from all around the world that he can’t be bothered to get rid of, and a little carved wooden fox. Illya had made it for him, whittling away at the wood whilst on a long and tedious mission. He’d refused to show Napoleon what it was until it was finished, and had blushed when finally handing it over. Napoleon had laughed, and kissed his blush away.

Now, he checks the time. “If his flight left on time, then Peril should be somewhere over South America right now,” he tells Gaby. At her frown, he sighs. “He’s on assignment,” he explains. “Left this morning.”

“What?” Gaby asks, putting down the lockpicks and focusing on Napoleon. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

Napoleon shrugs. “Orders from on high,” he just says. “Waverly tells us to jump, and we jump.” There’s a shade of bitterness in his voice, but it’s less than it was. If he’s being honest with himself, which is something he’s been trying to do more of recently for Illya and their relationship, he knows he’s just bitter because Illya was sent on this assignment and he wasn’t sent with him. They’ve only been lovers for a few months, but it’s enough for Napoleon to know he’s compromised when it comes to Illya. Some part of him, regardless of how professional he behaves, just wants to be at Illya’s side.

“Besides,” he adds. “You weren’t involved in the planning for this, seeing as you were off busy in Paris until yesterday. We would have said something, but people began to move quicker than anticipated and we had to get someone in there. Anything more than that and I’m verging towards classified material, so I’ll stop there.”

Gaby levels him with a look, and Napoleon knows she’s just going to request the mission information once she leaves the office. “So why aren’t you in South America?” she asks, leaning back against the desk. “Too hot for your suits?”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “You can find a suit for any occasion,” he says pointedly. “But to answer your question, they don’t need my skill set for this one. I helped gather information, but that’s all I did here. Peril is much more suited for this.”

“And what is this he’s so suited for?” Gaby asks. “Is something going to be blown up?”

Napoleon laughs. “No, more’s the pity,” he replies. “That would make things easier, but attract far too much attention. No, this is one for Peril’s wetwork abilities.”

Gaby stills. “Wetwork?” she asks, and her voice is suddenly small.

Napoleon nods distractedly, spinning in his chair to turn back to some of his work. He thinks he might have just made a connection between two reports in the back of his mind, and he’s interested to see if it’s another dead end or something he can actually use. “He should be back in a few weeks at the most,” he tells her over his shoulder. “If all goes well, he might be back within the week, but there are a lot of factors to consider.”

He pauses when he realises there’s no reply from Gaby, and swings back round in his chair to look at her. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Wetwork?” Gaby asks again. “I…I didn’t think we did that.”

Napoleon stares at her for a long moment, and then understanding slowly dawns. “We’re a spy agency, Gaby,” he says softly. “We may be different to the CIA or the KGB, but ultimately we’re still a spy agency. Wetwork is a part of this job.”

Gaby’s expression slowly changes from confusion to annoyance. “So Waverly sent Illya to do this?” she asks indignantly. “Why him?”

Napoleon sighs. “Hell, Gaby, I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe because he’s good at it? You must have seen the kill count in his file, and that’s only the ones the KGB will admit to.” He pauses, thinking for a moment. “You know, I don’t think it’s been updated since joining UNCLE. I should probably remind the people down in filing about that.”

Gaby pauses. “I didn’t think that a kill count referred to…”

“What?” Napoleon asks, getting a little exasperated now. Gaby is relatively new to the spy game, but he thinks she should know better. “Assassinations? Technically not, but in any way meaningful, then yes, that’s what the kill count refers to. Peril’s specifically, seeing as the KGB count most other deaths as collateral damage.” He scoffs, shaking his head slightly. “Trust the KGB to think like that.”

“Does he like doing it?”

Gaby’s question somehow manages to surprise Napoleon. “Wetwork?” he asks, and Gaby nods. He suddenly realises that she looks small in his office, leaning against Illya’s desk, and for a brief moment he wonders what would have happened to her had she never entered this life. Now she’s in, he knows that she’ll never be able to get back out. Being a spy is addictive, in some way. Going back to irrelevance would be more than he knows he could handle.

“The moment that you start to like carrying out wetwork,” he tells Gaby, “is the moment you retire from the field.” He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “Of course he doesn’t like assassinating people, but that doesn’t matter. There’s a job to do, and he’s the best person to do it.”

Gaby looks at him for a long moment. “Okay,” she says eventually, but Napoleon can tell she’s uneasy with it. “Is he safe?”

“Are any of us safe?” Napoleon asks instead of actually answering her question, and Gaby scrunches up a piece of paper to throw at his head.

“Don’t be an arse,” she says. “You know where he is and who he’s...been sent to kill, I suppose.” Napoleon nods, seeing no point in mincing words about it. “Is he safe?” Gaby asks. “Does he have an extraction plan in place, and backup?”

Napoleon holds up his hands and cuts her off. “Do you have any faith in me?” he snaps at her. “Yes, there’s an extraction plan in place. There’s another one as contingency, and then another contingency to that one. There are backup agents undercover in strategic places, more on standby in case something goes wrong, and Illya knows all of this, because I went over it all with him last night before he left.” He glares at Gaby. “Do you think I don’t value his life?”

Gaby rolls her eyes. “Solo, that was not what I was saying in any way at all,” she says. “And you know it. You care about him more than anyone else alive in the world, I think.” Napoleon just nods. Gaby knows about them, was exasperated watching the two of them dance around each other for months before finally committing, and Napoleon knows she is right.

“What he’s doing is dangerous,” Gaby says eventually. “I just want to know he’s going to come back in one piece.”

Napoleon gets to his feet, trying to ignore the knot of worry forming in his chest and gripping his throat that isn’t doing anyone any good. “None of us are ever safe in this damn game,” he tells her. “The sooner you get used to that, the sooner this will get easier.” He gathers up some of his reports and leaves his own office before he lets himself realise how dangerous Illya’s assignment is.

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon spends a week trying not to spend every spare minute down on the communications floor where they monitor the current active missions, getting any piece of information he can on Illya’s assignment and his progress. Illya reports in for a few minutes every day, but the typed reports that appear on Napoleon’s desk are little comfort, especially when Illya informs them that he’s located the target and is going silent on communications. Napoleon spends half an hour after that report reaches his desk pacing up and down his office, trying to still the itch in his fingers.

He recognises the itch, the one that has him thinking of the Met only a short taxi ride away, that kept him going all those years as he ran across most of the world stealing art. It’s grown rarer, the insatiable itch, ever since he joined UNCLE, but it’s still there.

He huffs a brief laugh. If Illya were here he would call him a magpie and distract him with something, preferably by kissing him. There aren’t any cameras in the office that would be a problem anyway, and Napoleon has a fond few memories of soft kisses in this room, pulling Illya close to him and letting the world around them drop away for a few brief moments. But then Illya isn’t here, and that’s the whole problem.

Napoleon puts on a record and tries to concentrate on it. He manages to listen to it for a full two minutes, the smooth melody of jazz filling the office, before he’s pacing again. The bottle of scotch that he keeps in a desk drawer calls out to him, but he ignores it with years of practice. He’s not as strict as Illya about drinking on the job, but even he knows that drinking in the office is a steep slope that he doesn’t want to start down.

He knows he’s being an idiot, that there is nothing he can do to influence the outcome of Illya’s mission now that he’s gone silent, but still there’s an itch in his fingers that he can’t shake. He forces himself to sit down and work, and manages to distract himself for about two hours before he can’t stare at the reports anymore. Luckily, Gaby turns up and drags him out of his office to consult on a different case, which turns into a complete nightmare when a new report comes in of a potential chemical weapon being produced, and that’s enough to keep Napoleon busy until late into the night.

As soon as he returns to his apartment that he’s slowly starting to think of as his and Illya’s, though he knows it’s far too early to ask whether Illya wants to move in with him, the itch starts up again. This time, it takes him two glasses of scotch to dull it enough to sleep. He contemplates the chess board, the king still on its side where he had conceded to Illya’s mastery last, but eventually leaves it alone. He’s not good enough to try and play himself, and he doesn’t think it will end well if he were to try.

There’s three days of radio silence, and Napoleon spends it distracting himself with work during the day, and with scotch at night. He finds himself wishing, on the nights that his apartment feels too empty, that he’d insisted on going with Illya to provide back up for him. They’re simply better together.

He’s trying to distract himself with work, on the afternoon of the third day, when Waverly’s secretary pokes her head around the door. “He’s in US airspace,” is the first thing she says, and Napoleon can feel the tension leaking from his shoulders. He leans back in his chair, giving her a grateful smile.

“I take it the mission was successful, if you don’t have a mountain of paperwork for me,” Napoleon says, glancing at the slim files in her arms, none of which she seems like she’s going to part with. “Do I need to have Medical on standby for anything?”

Deena laughs, and shakes her head. “He didn’t say anything about that,” she says, and Napoleon huffs a laugh.

“All that means is that he’s not currently bleeding out,” he points out. “But I’m sure he’s fine, if he’s on the plane and talking.” He shuffles some of the paper on his desk, and Deena notices the pinch in his brow, the slight tension that still hasn’t left his shoulders. She knows it won’t until he sees Illya, whole and alive, in front of him.

“Here’s a very brief mission report that Illya gave over the radio,” she says, handing over a piece of paper. “Waverly wants you there for when Illya debriefs with him in his office. Someone will let you know when he arrives, but it should be a couple of hours.” Napoleon glances at his watch, obviously impatient, and Deena’s smile softens. There are a million platitudes she could say to him, about how she’s sure Illya is fine, or how it won’t be long at all before he’s back, but she has been working for Waverly for years now. She knows how meaningless the platitudes become after a while in this game.

“I’ll have someone bring up some food to Waverly’s office when Illya arrives,” she says instead. “I doubt he’ll have eaten. Any preferences?”

Napoleon thinks for a moment. “Subs?” he asks eventually, giving Deena a pleading look. “There’s that new deli a block over called Mo’s.” Illya won’t admit to it, but Napoleon knows that he loves the sandwiches there, ever since he bought two of them during a long and frustrating day at work where they were making no headway on their case. Illya hadn’t said anything, but even for his appetite the sandwich had disappeared quickly, and the next time Napoleon had volunteered to step out to get them something to eat, Illya had briefly suggested Mo’s. For Illya, that’s practically a demand.

“Don’t think this is going to be a regular occurrence,” Deena warns him, even as she makes a note of it. “I’m not your secretary. This is just because you’re missing your boy, and I’m feeling sorry for you.” Napoleon grins sheepishly, having become accustomed to Deena’s gentle ribbing about his and Illya’s relationship.

“I plead the fifth,” he says with a grin. “But thank you, Deena, and thank you for keeping all those reports on the mission coming across my desk.” He laughs as Deena arches a brow. “I know that was you taking pity on me,” he says. “I don’t think this place would ever run properly without you. I certainly would be at a disadvantage.”

“You can say thank you in your usual way,” Deena says with a smile, and Napoleon laughs.

“Of course, what would you like this time?” he asks. “Handbag or shoes?”

“Shoes,” Deena says instantly. “Louis Vuitton, if you would.” Napoleon nods, and makes a mental note of it. It’s always good to keep himself in Deena’s good books, and she’s a connection to the very useful network of secretaries and assistants in the various agencies across the country and in UNCLE.

Deena leaves him alone, and Napoleon tries to focus back on his work. It’s more difficult than he’d expected, now he knows that Illya is somewhere over the US and only a few hours away. He knows Illya, knows him perhaps better than anyone else at the moment, and he knows that short of a life-threatening injury Illya won’t mention anything over the radio, and there’s more besides physical injuries. He can’t help but wonder about what happened on the mission.

He has done wetwork before. He’s never particularly liked it, always preferred using his tongue and his wits before a gun, but he’s done it before. Illya, he knows, has done it a lot more, the KGB always leaning towards using wetwork to solve their problems. Illya has never mentioned it as a problem, and out of all the fodder they have for nightmares between them, wetwork features rarely.

Now, sitting at his desk and staring at the reports on his desk, Napoleon wonders where, in their long and chequered pasts, taking a life became routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mo's is based off an actual sub shop, called Mo's. It's in Portsmouth (US) and does the BEST subs I've ever had. Seriously, it's ruined literally every other sub for me forever, and I am sour that I like in the UK and probably won't ever get to go back there.
> 
> This will probably be about three-four chapters long, depending on where I decide to split it. As the tags say, it's mostly a bundle of tropes and not much else that I came up with as an interlude between writing longer stories. I'm hoping to have the professor AU finished in a few days or so, and the Tour de France AU in a couple of weeks, maybe a little more (it depends on how much exams start kicking my arse).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to remind people so you don't get your hopes up- this is not a long story! It looks like there's only one more chapter after this, and whilst there is angst, it's more of that gratuitous fluff-with-a-helping-of-angst your mother warned you about, rather than hardcore death-defying stuff. If you want that and haven't already, I was much more hardcore in my first TMFU story, we cannot make our sun stand still (yet we will make him run). The multiple people who angsted at me in the comments can account for that!

There’s a buzz from the intercom on Napoleon’s desk, and it’s hard for him to not just slam his hand down on the button. When he answers, it’s Deena’s voice on the line.

“Illya just arrived,” she tells him, and Napoleon tries to keep his heart from jumping up into his throat. “He’s heading straight for Waverly’s office at the moment.” Napoleon barely remembers to thank Deena and turn off the intercom before he’s out of his office, trying to look like he’s not rushing as he’s rushing down the hall.

He’s nearing the lift when it slides open, and there’s a rush of relief that makes him stop in his tracks as he sees Illya in the lift. Illya sees him, and there’s a quirk to his lips as he steps out and meets him in the hall.

“You look terrible,” are the first words out of Napoleon’s mouth. Considering some of the states Napoleon has seen Illya in, he doesn’t actually look terrible, but he looks tired, and there’s a shallow cut running down one cheek. Napoleon nearly reaches out for it, but remembers at the last moment they’re standing in the corridors of UNCLE headquarters. Whilst it’s a progressive organisation, and Waverly overlooks anything that doesn’t impact the effectiveness of his agents, it’s still wise not to draw too much attention to it.

“I’m fine,” Illya says, briefly reaching out and squeezing Napoleon’s hand. “Let’s get debrief over with, yes?”

Napoleon nods, and falls into step beside Illya. They don’t speak, but it’s a comfortable silence that the two of them are familiar with, and Napoleon can’t help but relax into it.

True to her word, Deena produces two subs as soon as they step into her office. Napoleon was right: Illya eyes the sandwich like a starved man, and looks disgruntled when Deena says they’ll have to wait until they’ve finished the debrief. “Don’t steal it from her,” Napoleon says to him, nudging Illya and revelling quietly in the contact. “And I’ll cook something up as well when we get home.”

Illya glances over at him. “Sounds good, Cowboy,” he says softly, and Deena shows them through into Waverly’s office.

“Good to see you in one piece, Kuryakin,” Waverly says from his desk, waving them into the chairs across from him. “I take it the mission was successful?”

Napoleon knows that Waverly has already seen the brief report that Illya sent in over the radio, and that he knows the mission was a success, but he just sits back and listens. He’s learnt by now how Waverly likes to handle his debriefs, and it’s so typically British he’s sometimes surprised that there isn’t a pot of tea to hand every time they go through this.

Illya nods, and launches straight into the debrief, and it always amuses Napoleon to see Waverly’s British repression go up against Illya’s Russian stoicism. He doesn’t add much, beyond the information he had gathered with Illya before he had left. He knows that his presence here is just a mere courtesy from Waverly, and to stop him pestering Deena for information.

The debrief is routine, and for once it seems like the mission went to plan. Waverly eyes Napoleon once Illya is finished. “It seems that the dramatics of a mission increase exponentially when the two of you work together,” he points out. Illya stiffens slightly, and Waverly waves a hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not splitting the two of you up anytime soon. Life would be much less interesting if I hadn’t hired you both.”

Napoleon huffs a short laugh. “I’m sure, Sir,” he says. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, don’t let me detain the two of you,” Waverly says in all of his polite British demeanour. “There are mission reports to write, of course, and there’s always paperwork somewhere that needs doing. Kuryakin, I don’t expect to see you here tomorrow. Solo, I do expect to see you here tomorrow as usual. The most you’ve exerted yourself over the past week has been pacing up and down your office, so you have no excuse for a day off.”

Napoleon laughs, and nudges Illya to get out of the chair. Illya looks like he could fall asleep right there, and Napoleon closes a hand around his wrist. “The quicker we write the mission reports, the quicker we can leave,” he says softly, tugging Illya towards the door.

Waverly watches them go with an indulgent smile curling his lips. Napoleon thinks he’s so careful, but Waverly can see how he tangles his fingers with Illya as he pushes open the door, the unguarded look on his face as Illya rolls his eyes and makes some comment that Waverly can’t quite make out. He thinks that it’s good for the both of them, what they have. Happiness is so rare in their world, and it’s even harder to hold onto.

0-o-0-o-0

Gaby is perched on Napoleon’s desk when he and Illya get back to their office, finishing off their subs. Illya’s had disappeared quickly, even for him, and Napoleon had been half worried he was going to choke as he inhaled the sandwich.

“You look terrible,” is also the first thing Gaby says to Illya, hopping off the desk and pressing a kiss to his cheek in greetings. “When did you last sleep?”

Illya drops into the chair at his desk with a grimace, spinning it to see Gaby as she takes back her perch on Napoleon’s desk across the room. “Not since…day before last, I think,” he mutters. He does look tired, and Napoleon uses it as a flimsy excuse to lean next to him against the desk and drape an arm over his shoulders. He smooths his thumb across the base of Illya’s neck, digging into the tight muscles there, and Illya leans against him.

“So how was Venezuela, Peril?” Napoleon asks as he looks down at Illya. “I hear the food is amazing.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “Did not have much chance to try local food, Cowboy,” he says dryly. “Was a bit busy with trying to find target.” He grimaces. “Venezuela is hot,” he adds. “Humid. What is word you Americans use for that? Moggy?”

Napoleon laughs, and gently runs his hand through Illya’s hair. Gaby gives them both an affectionate smile. “You mean muggy,” he says. “A moggy is a cat.”

Illya looks up at him with a frown. “That makes no sense,” he points out. “How is moggy related to cat in any way?”

“Technically, I think it’s a slang term for a mongrel cat,” Napoleon explains, a grin curling his lips at the frankly quite adorable frown on Illya’s face. “So it makes some sense.” Illya gives him a disbelieving look and leans back into him, nudging at Napoleon’s hand with his head until Napoleon goes back to kneading at the tight muscles at the base of his neck. The smile on Gaby’s face widens at the sight.

“You got out easily enough?” Gaby asks after a few minutes. “After…completing the assignment?”

Illya grimaces. “Had five miles of jungle to get through to extraction point,” he says, and Napoleon winces.

“Eight miles doesn’t sound too bad,” Gaby says hesitantly, and Napoleon shakes his head.

“One mile in a jungle is comparable to ten in the open,” he says. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to just make your way through them, let alone navigate to a certain point.” Illya hums in agreement, his eyes slipping shut for a brief moment as Napoleon works a knot out of his neck.

“And had to go through river,” he murmurs. “With…” He glances up at Napoleon. “What do you call them? They drink blood?”

“Vampires?” Napoleon offers with a grin, and Illya rolls his eyes. If he’s forgetting his words like this, then Napoleon knows that he is verging on exhaustion, but unfortunately there are still reports to write and paperwork to sign off on before they can leave.

“Be sensible, Cowboy,” Illya says. “They’re like…snails…without houses? But drink blood?” At that, Napoleon bursts out laughing, not bothering to try and stifle it. Even Gaby looks amused and like she’s trying to hold back a laugh of her own. Illya frowns, and elbows Napoleon.

“You try translating from English to Russian, and see how I laugh at you,” he mutters. Napoleon manages to stop himself laughing, and leans down to press an affectionate kiss to the top of Illya’s head.

“No, no, it’s a very good explanation,” he says with a grin. “Very exact. I think the term you’re looking for is a leech, by the way. I had my fair share of those in the war, they’re horrible.” He fluffs Illya’s hair, grinning when Illya swats his hand away. “You should write up your report,” he says. “And then we can go home. I have the ingredients for borscht if you want it.”

“Of course, Cowboy,” Illya says, reluctantly pulling away from the warmth of Napoleon and turning to his desk to get a piece of paper and a pen. “Yours is second best borscht I’ve had, I think.”

Napoleon fakes a dramatic gasp, and clutches at his chest. “Only second, Peril?” he asks. “I’m wounded.” But there’s a smile on his face, and he doesn’t say anything more about it. The first time he attempted borscht, a few weeks after they’d first gotten together, there had been a little too much alcohol involved and Illya had said something about his mother and her cooking. It had only been a few words, and Napoleon hadn’t pried further, but ever since then Illya has offered up a few stories about his childhood, and his mother’s cooking often features.

Napoleon doesn’t want to try and recreate the better parts of Illya’s childhood in some weird fantasy of fixing his partner’s life, but he knows Illya sometimes feels adrift in New York, cut off from his country by an ocean, a continent and the ideological gap that’s only worsening as the tensions rise. If Napoleon can introduce some home comforts for him, whether that’s making Russian food or speaking Russian when they’re alone together, then it’s the least he can do for the man he loves.

“How long does it take you to write a report?” he complains after about twenty minutes. Gaby has commandeered his own desk to do something that is probably above his pay grade, and Napoleon retreated to the couch when he tried to take his desk back and she fixed him with a look. He closes the file he’s currently reading to see Illya roll his eyes.

“Seriously, it can’t be that long a report,” he says. “You arrived, spent a few days scoping out the target and finding an in, took the target out and was extracted. Practically like clockwork, and you didn’t even get blood on your clothes.”

“How do you know these were clothes I was wearing for wetwork, Cowboy?” Illya shoots back, and he sees Gaby shift uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. “Smart spy changes appearance before extraction, but then you would not know that, I suppose.”

“I am insulted, Peril,” Napoleon says. “I would always make sure to change my appearance before an extraction, if I had to be in public.”

“Yes, but that is because you don’t like to get blood on your suits,” Illya points out.

Napoleon considers that for a moment, and then shrugs. “Fair enough,” he admits. He leans back on the sofa. “So, what are you missing out of your report?” He’s been a spy for so long now, and he learnt fairly quickly that a lot of things get left out of the official reports. “Wetwork never, ever, happens as easily as that.”

Illya shrugs. “Wasn’t actually that bad,” he says. “Wanted to shoot him from window, but he drew curtains, so had to go inside and use knife instead.” He huffs a laugh. “Dogs tried to chase me, but got distracted by the body. Not very good guard dogs.”

Napoleon grins. “No, those don’t sound like great guard dogs,” he says. “At least the man didn’t own cats, though. Apparently they’ll eat you once you’re dead, even if you’ve owned them for all their life.” Illya laughs at that, and Napoleon’s grin widens. “I know, it would make rather a gruesome discovery for the poor person who discovers the body. Probably a maid.”

“It’s always maid,” Illya adds. “Nobody else finds bodies like maids do.” He pauses, and then huffs a laugh. “Maybe we should hire maids in agency to find bodies,” he muses, just to make Napoleon laugh. “Would have higher success rate than us at moment.”

“Dropping your articles,” Napoleon reminds Illya as he looks back at the file in his hands, and Illya throws a piece of paper at his head. Napoleon smooths it out, and reads through the first page of the report. “You misspelled ‘necessary’,” he points out, and the next thing Illya throws at his head is a pen.

“Your language has too many rules,” he mutters. “And even more exceptions.”

“I know, I know,” Napoleon says as he corrects the spelling. “English is a bastard language that beats up other languages and steals their words. That’s what happens when Britain had an empire.” He pauses. “Might still have one. I’m not sure.”

“Russia had empire too,” Illya points out. “We still have proper language.” He shoots Napoleon a look. “We owned part of your country, once. You had to buy it off us.”

Napoleon holds up one hand. “Let’s not get into this again,” he says. “I know, Alaska was once part of the Russian empire, and I know, we bought it back from you, the terrible capitalists that we are. You don’t have to rub it in my face.” Illya snorts in amusement, and tries to turn back to his report to finish it.

“I hate paperwork,” he mutters. “Why does wetwork have so much paperwork?”

“That’s what happens when you kill someone,” Napoleon points out with a wry smile. “I’m sure the KGB had paperwork too. The CIA loved drowning me in it.”

Illya scowls at the report he’s writing. “Not this much,” he says. “Not even for wetwork. They liked to keep that sort of thing quiet, with no paper trail.” He huffs a laugh. “But then the targets were…”

“More objectionable?” Napoleon offers with a smirk. “I can guess so.”

Illya shrugs. “At least Waverly doesn’t ask for revenge work,” he says over his shoulder. “Never liked doing that, even if KGB did their fair share.” There’s a slight smile on his face, but it’s weighted down with a grief and a shame that had been carved into him from a young age, cutting deep into his bones.

“No, I can’t imagine you did,” Napoleon says, his voice suddenly softening as he takes in Illya’s expression. He knows the bare details of what happened to Illya’s father, and can guess at more. Rumours of the Soviet gulags are always exaggerated, but Napoleon knows there’s more truth to them than some people realise.

Besides, Illya seems to have a bad reaction to finding others carrying out revenge work. Napoleon knows Illya has done it before with the KGB himself, but it’s just another of those things that Illya has locked up tight and manages to put out of his mind until another painful reminder surfaces. He wonders what has Illya thinking of revenge work right now, and makes a mental note to ask more about the mission when they get home and they’re alone together.

Gaby makes a small noise from where she’s sat at Napoleon’s desk, and Napoleon only realises now, when he looks up at her, how uncomfortable she’s looking. Illya glances over at her, and then a frown creases his brow as well. “Chop shop girl?” he asks, spinning his chair. “What is wrong?”

Gaby shakes her head, but both Napoleon and Illya know something is wrong now, and they’re nothing if not stubborn. “Gaby,” Illya says, his voice softening. “What is it?”

Gaby throws her hands up in the air with a huff. “How are you okay with this?” she blurts out. “How can the two of you be sitting there laughing over all of this?”

Illya blinks, completely blindsided by her sudden outburst. “What do you mean?” he asks, and he sees Napoleon stiffen out of the corner of his eye, a frown on his face.

Gaby looks angry, and he can’t quite work out why in his exhaustion. “You just came back from a mission where Waverly ordered you to kill someone,” she says, sounding like she’s struggling to keep her voice under control. “You just…you’re sitting here, joking with Napoleon over the damn paperwork, when you just killed another person on Waverly’s orders! How are you okay with this? How can you just…just sit there and talk about revenge work and wetwork without…without feeling something, anything?”

Illya blinks, and his breath stutters in his throat. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how to answer Gaby, his chop shop girl who is looking angry and worried and so much like herself that he can’t find the words to lie to her. He tries to draw in a breath, but between one heartbeat and another he feels the world growing grey and dim around him, the edges of his vision blurring. He can hear his heart thumping traitorously in his ears.

When he next breathes, there’s a broken lamp on the floor, and Napoleon is kneeling in front of his chair. “Illya,” he says softly, and Illya thinks it’s not the first time he’s said his name, trying to get his attention. He blinks again, and looks down at Napoleon. “Back with me?” Napoleon asks softly, running a hand across Illya’s thigh.

Illya hesitates, and that’s all Napoleon needs. He reaches out and takes Illya’s hand, pressing it to his chest. Illya can feel the steady heartbeat beneath his fingers, the rise and fall of Napoleon’s chest, and slowly the trembling in his fingers lessens.

“There we go,” Napoleon says, a crooked smile curling his lips as some of the tension leaves Illya’s shoulders. “Easy now.” He keeps Illya’s hand pressed to his chest, smoothing his thumb across the back of his hand. “Do you want me to put some music on?”

Illya shakes his head. Sometimes, when his hands won’t stop shaking and he feels like he’s falling apart, Napoleon will put on a record and make him count out the beats, but he doesn’t want to have to do that in front of Gaby. Napoleon just nods. “Okay, that’s fine,” he says soothingly. “Do you want to go outside?”

Illya shakes his head again, letting himself slump forwards slightly. Napoleon smiles slightly as he reaches up with his free hand and runs it through Illya’s hair, toying with the hair at the nape of Illya’s neck. “Do you want to nap on the couch?” he asks next. He knows that when Illya is like this, it’s best to keep it to one question at a time, and one that he can easily answer yes or no to. The two of them have come to know each other better than anyone else in the world, and Napoleon has spent more time than he thinks is probably healthy working out how to help Illya when he needs it.

He runs through the normal questions, but Illya keeps shaking his head. “I’m fine, Cowboy,” he says eventually, though there’s still a small tremor in his hands, and Napoleon can tell he’s not quite together. “Let’s finish reports and then go home, yes?”

Gaby, who has been sitting unnoticed at Napoleon’s desk this whole time, clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Illya,” is the first thing she says. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, you don’t have to leave,” Illya says quietly. “If you don’t want to.”

Napoleon glances over his shoulder at her, and then looks back up at Illya, who is almost surprised by the cold anger that’s on Napoleon’s face. “Give us a moment, Gaby,” Napoleon says, not looking at her. Gaby gets up and leaves without another word.

“She doesn’t get to question you like that,” Napoleon says as soon as the door swings shut, his voice low and serious. “She doesn’t understand.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Illya says softly. He takes a breath, feels the air rush into his lungs and his chest expand, and he finally takes his hand from Napoleon’s chest. “She was worried,” he says, and Napoleon’s eyes tighten.

“She’s been sitting on this since she found out you were doing wetwork, I think,” he says after a few moments. “She’s never had to kill like that. I forget she’s still so new to this.”

“I know,” Illya murmurs. He reaches out and cups Napoleon’s jaw, running his thumb across his cheek. “You understand,” he says helplessly, unable to put into words the maelstrom slowly settling down inside him, the lessons his life has carved deep into his bones. “You know me.”

“I do,” Napoleon says, covering Illya’s hand with his own. “I understand.” He can’t help the adoration that he knows is blatantly on display on his face, and Illya’s lips quirk slightly in the beginnings of a smile.

“Gaby can come back in,” he says. “I will finish this report, and then we can go home.”

Napoleon gets to his feet, only to lean down and press a kiss to Illya’s lips. “Sounds good,” he murmurs against his lips. “Do you want her to come over tonight so we can try and explain it to her?” At Illya’s nod, he kisses him again, before moving away reluctantly and opening the door. Illya, a faint smile on his lips that he couldn’t get rid of even if he wanted to, turns back to his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who can spot the LoTR reference?? I didn't mean to put it in, it's quite subtle, but it just ended up there.
> 
> As I said in the beginning notes, there will be one more chapter to this story. I have managed to finish the Arts Professor AU, so hopefully it will be up soon- it depends on current writing speed of the Tour AU, and mostly how much confidence I have in the story. AUs are hard to write! The characterisation is always going to have to be different, because the characters are in very different situations to canon, but for this particular one it did all snowball and get away from me rather quickly. I don't think I'll ever be properly happy with it, but short of rewriting the entire thing (which I do not have time or motivation for, exams are killing me) there's nothing I can really do.
> 
> So yeah, the Arts Professor AU will hopefully be up in a week or two. Maybe. We'll see if I like it at all when I read through it again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter- once again, please dig into the massive pile of tropes that I have served out for your delight.

When Gaby opens Napoleon’s apartment door, slipping her spare key back into her purse, she almost groans at the smell of his cooking. There is a hint of spice that she can smell, and the richness of roasting meats that is always going to make her hungry, years spent in East Berlin too ingrained for her to really ever ignore.

She pauses by the door when she hears a low murmur of voices from the kitchen. She’s learnt enough Russian now to grasp most of the conversation, and something makes her wait for a few moments, just listening.

Napoleon’s voice is low, and sounds urgent. “No, listen to me,” he says softly, the Russian accent nearly perfect on his tongue. He must be talking to Illya, but Gaby can’t see either of them from where she’s lingering in the doorway. “Just… don’t argue with me over this. Just give me this, just for tonight.” There’s a low murmur from Illya that Gaby can’t make out, and a broken laugh from Napoleon.

“You are enough,” he tells Illya, and Gaby finds herself a little surprised at the raw emotion seeping through into his voice. “Love, you are more than enough. And you cannot blame yourself for whatever it is you are blaming yourself for.”

“Leon,” Illya murmurs softly. “I can’t…”

“You can, and you will,” Napoleon says fiercely. “You have done so all these years, yes? Do it again tonight.”

“It’s different now,” Illya murmurs. “It’s not…the KGB was not this.” There’s a pause, and then in a voice so soft Gaby can barely make out the words, he adds, “there is more to lose, now.”

“I know,” Napoleon says. “But you’re not losing anything. I won’t let that happen.” Gaby can’t hear what he says next, and Illya murmurs something incomprehensible in reply. Napoleon huffs a laugh. “Yes, I know that too,” he says. “But let’s move on now. Gaby will be here soon, and we’ll have supper and give her an explanation of it all, and then I think there’s an old war film on tonight which we can watch.”

“I love you, you know that?” Illya says. “I really do.”

Napoleon laughs. “As do I,” he murmurs. At that, Gaby decides that she’s probably been listening in enough. She knocks on the door and then shuts it loudly behind her, calling out to the two of them.

Napoleon appears in the kitchen doorway, an apron already on. “Just in time,” he says, a smile on his face that appears genuine. “You can make a salad. Illya’s been banned from helping with dinner since he burnt pasta last week.”

“Cowboy is exaggerating,” Illya says with a scowl as Gaby heads into the kitchen, handing Napoleon the bottle of wine she had bought. “It was fine.”

“Your definition of what makes food fine is considerably skewed,” Napoleon points out as he turns back to the stove. “You’re Russian, and on top of that you were spetsnaz, so you will eat literally anything. Ergo, your definition doesn’t count.”

Illya scowls at him. “Ergo, Cowboy?” he asks. “When you have to use words like that, you know you are losing argument.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes, and swats at Illya with his wooden spoon. Illya catches it out of the air and throws it so it lands perfectly in the pot on the stove. “Dinner,” he says pointedly. “Do not burn borscht.”

“No, it wouldn’t do to insult your home country like that,” Napoleon says with a laugh. He looks over his shoulder at Gaby as he turns to the stove. “Ingredients for salad are over on the counter,” he tells her.

Had Gaby not heard the murmured conversation before, she would not have guessed that it had happened. There’s a tightness around Napoleon’s eyes, the slightest of tensions sitting in his shoulders, but she would not see it if she didn’t know to look for it. Illya just looks tired, though he’s more at ease here, sitting at Napoleon’s kitchen table, than she thinks she’s ever seen him in his own apartment.

There’s a record on low volume in the living room, some of Napoleon’s jazz that makes Gaby roll her eyes. But Illya is humming along under his breath along with the song, tapping out the beat on the table. At the stove, Napoleon is swaying slightly in time to the soft melodies of the saxophone and piano winding through the apartment.

Gaby finds herself growing oddly uncomfortable as she waits for Illya to say something, for Napoleon to glare at her again over his shoulder, for the two of them to decide that she shouldn’t be here and kick her out. Illya seems tired enough that he doesn’t really notice it, leaning back in his chair and watching Napoleon cook. There’s an unguarded expression on his face as he watches him, one that makes Gaby feel like she’s intruding on a moment she’s not quite meant to see.

Eventually Napoleon glances at her, and then frowns. “Peril,” he says softly, and then switches into what sounds like Mandarin, of which Gaby knows very little. Illya frowns, listening, and then says a few short words in the same language back to Napoleon before getting to his feet and heading out of the kitchen.

“I should have anticipated that you couldn’t have waited until after dinner to ask about it all,” Napoleon says to Gaby with a sigh. He turns down a dial on the stove and sets the lid on the pan. “He’s not angry with you anymore, by the way.”

“Really?” Gaby asks, arching a brow. “He had an episode in the office. He hasn’t had that for months.”

Napoleon shrugs. “When you’ve been there,” he points out. “Half the time you’re off in another country doing something for Waverly that’s well above our pay grade. Anyway, it wasn’t a bad episode, it just made him more tired.” He sighs, and sits down at the table. “He was angry with you. Christ, Gaby, I was angry with you for that, but it’s been a couple of hours now and we’ve both calmed down. He knows you didn’t mean it, but it just brought up a few…unpleasant memories.”

At that, Illya walks back into the kitchen. There’s a leather notebook in his hand, and he sets it down in front of Gaby before taking a seat next to Napoleon, his hand skimming across Napoleon’s shoulders reassuringly. Gaby reaches for the notebook, but Napoleon puts a hand out to stop her flipping it open.

“What is this?” she asks, drawing her hand back enough that Napoleon relaxes slightly. “And what has this got to do with anything?”

“This,” Napoleon says, tapping the notebook cover with one finger, “contains all the details that someone might need if I die. Bank accounts, the locations of my various safehouses and caches and what to do with them, contacts for fencing the stolen art without attracting attention, all of that. I updated it a few weeks after starting at UNCLE, and currently the two of you are the only ones who know of it. Illya has his own version of this in his own apartment.” He glances at Illya, who has leant back in his chair and is alternating between watching Gaby and glaring at the notebook.

Gaby arches a brow. “And why are you showing me this?” she asks.

“To make a point,” Napoleon says promptly. “We’ve both been in this game a long time, and we know what we are doing.” He briefly spins the notebook on the table. “Peril, when was the first time you killed someone?”

“Official or unofficial, Cowboy?” Illya asks, a slight drawl to his voice that makes Gaby think he hasn’t come all that close to forgiving her yet.

“Let’s go with official,” Napoleon says. “Otherwise it will just get complicated.”

Illya nods. “Fair enough.” He thinks for a moment. “Fifteen? No, maybe sixteen. KGB made me go and shadow spetsnaz group whilst in early KGB training, and was taken out on mission with older soldiers. I was only meant to watch, but ended up getting involved.” He shrugs. “Oleg became interested soon after.”

“I’m sure he did,” Napoleon remarks. “I was eighteen, I think? I don’t know, the years all blurred together a bit during the war. My company was clearing a village, and there were still a few German soldiers there.” He sees Gaby’s expression, and arches a brow. “My point is, before you start questioning all of this, is that we’ve been killing people for a while now. We know what we’re doing, and we know how to deal with the repercussions.”

“In this life, you learn soon enough how to deal with that,” Illya adds, his voice a low rumble. “If you don’t, you die.”

“Slightly macabre, but true,” Napoleon comments, giving Illya a look. “People who don’t compartmentalize well generally do not cut it in this life. I’ve seen my fair share of people unable to cope, and they usually don’t just quietly leave.” Beside him, Illya nods in agreement. He’s seen a few spies burn out after too long in the game, and it didn’t end prettily for them. Most of them killed themselves in the end, whether by their own hand or by someone else’s and their own recklessness.

“Between us, we have over three decades of experience in this game,” Napoleon adds when Gaby waits for them to say something else. “So my point, in all of this, is that we know how to cope. We both have tried and tested methods for living this life without letting it kill us too quickly. They may not be the most healthy methods, sometimes,” and at that Illya gives him a long-suffering look that makes Napoleon grin, “but they work. And what we don’t need is you asking us how we can appear okay after killing someone, like you did today.”

Gaby stares at him. “But you can’t be okay with doing that,” she says disbelievingly. “We may be spies, but this job doesn’t take away that much.”

“Give it a decade,” Illya murmurs. “I’ve been doing this in some form since I was twelve.” He studies Gaby. “Already you are getting more used to pulling trigger. It has only been in middle of fight, so far, but you are already more comfortable with killing people when you have to.” He shrugs. “We have had a lot longer to become used to it.”

Gaby stares at the two of them. She finds herself unable to say anything, unable to come up with some witty remark in the face of the reality of the job that is sometimes so easy to overlook. She’s not stupid, or naïve, and she knows what it is they do, but now she wonders if there’s more to this world than she’s seen so far.

Illya meets her gaze for a few moments, and then looks over at Napoleon. “I’m going to see if film has started yet,” he says softly. “Give me a couple minutes.”

Napoleon nods, and briefly squeezes Illya’s hand as he gets up. Illya presses a kiss to the top of his head, and he’s near silent leaving the kitchen.

Gaby watches him go with a frown, and Napoleon sighs. “I’m assuming you’ve heard of shell shock,” he says.

“Shell shock?” Gaby asks, glancing back at the door to the living room as if she can see Illya through the wall. “But that’s…that’s from wars, that leaves people wrecked.” She knew people who had fought in the war. There were a couple of men who worked in the mechanics that used to drop to the ground whenever a car backfired, and there were more who were out of jobs, struggling to get by when every movement in the corner of their eye sent them flinching into whatever shelter they could find. She didn’t know anyone could live normally with it, let alone be a spy.

Napoleon shakes his head, a slight smile curling his lips. “Shell shock is a stupid name for it,” he says. “But it’s the only one there is, at the moment. And if affects different people to different degrees. Some, yes, are wrecked by it. But some, like Illya and myself, get by with the occasional nightmare, or Illya’s episodes, or the slight paranoia that isn’t really paranoia because often there is actually someone out to kill us. After an assignment like the one he’s just completed, Illya is just that little more vulnerable to it.”

Gaby blinks. “Is this my fate, then?” she asks. “After a few years in this job, is this what will become of me?”

To her surprise, Napoleon laughs. “Gaby, you’re stronger than the both of us,” he says with a grin. Gaby stares him down, and the grin fades. “Honestly, I have no idea,” he says, “but Peril and I both have…complicated, and not very pleasant, histories. That doesn’t help us.” He shrugs. “You’ll probably lose some sleep over the things you do, but we all do, and you’re already very good at not letting it affect you on the job. How you deal with it in your own time…well, that’s up to you, but we have some pointers if you ever want to ask.”

“So how do you both deal with it?” Gaby asks.

Napoleon huffs a laugh. “Before UNCLE? A glass of scotch and some stealing on the side. From what Illya’s told me, he coped by training to the point of exhaustion. Now, it depends on what we’re dealing with. Tonight, there’s a film on that we’ll watch. We’ll make fun of the inaccuracies, eat dinner in front of it, and then go to bed. If there are nightmares in the night, then I’ll be there.” There’s a soft smile on his face that he doesn’t seem to realise is there, and he briefly glances through the kitchen doorway to where Illya is sitting on the couch.

Gaby watches him, and somehow she is still surprised by the open adoration on Napoleon’s face as he looks at Illya. She gets to her feet. “I know you invited me for dinner, but I think I should leave the two of you alone. Feel free to keep the wine.”

“Are you sure?” Napoleon asks, though he doesn’t sound like he’s protesting too much.

Gaby nods, and gathers her purse. Truthfully, she has a lot to think about tonight, and she’d like to do that in the company of a bottle of gin in her apartment. Besides, she doesn’t think that Illya needs her here right now.

“I’m going to head out,” she tells Illya as she steps into the living room. Illya is slumped on the couch, and frowns at her as she goes to him and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“You don’t have to,” he says, but there’s not much effort in the words, and Gaby laughs softly.

“I don’t think I’m quite welcome here tonight,” she says. “And Illya, I am sorry for what I said earlier.”

Illya waves one hand. “You understand now,” he says, and it’s not a question, so Gaby just nods. He smiles slightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, chop shop girl,” he says.

“Waverly doesn’t want you working tomorrow,” Gaby chides him, and Illya just grins.

“He said nothing about bringing in lunch when Napoleon forgets to eat again,” Illya points out, and there’s a huff of laughter from behind them. Napoleon is leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, apron still on, and a spoon back in his hand.

“Dinner in twenty,” he says.

“Film started ten minutes ago,” Illya replies with, and Napoleon drops the spoon on the kitchen counter to come and join him on the couch. He scoffs as soon as he sees the film playing.

“He’d be dead,” he points out, watching a company of soldiers advance on the screen. “That hedge wouldn’t provide any cover from any weapon, let alone an M1918, in real life. And an M1918 jams a lot more than that.”

“Just wait,” Illya says dryly. “They are running worst offensive strategy I’ve seen yet. And you know rifles never jam in films unless it is plot point.” Napoleon nods, and stretches out, wrapping one arm around Illya’s shoulders. Gaby doesn’t miss how Illya leans into the contact, resting his head on Napoleon’s shoulder as the two of them bicker about the proper military tactics that should be used for whatever is happening in the film.

Quietly, she lets herself out. She will leave the two of them alone for now, and perhaps tomorrow the worry set in Napoleon’s shoulders will have left, and Illya will have lost the edge of exhaustion and something else she doesn’t think she can quite understand yet.

The game has been kinder to her than it has to them, she thinks as she walks away. But they have each other, and it seems to be enough.

_finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot of fun to write, I really enjoyed it. The movie idea actually came from my dad- he has a Masters in WW2 history, so every time we watch a war movie he points out all the inaccuracies in it and how they should have done it better (only thing he hasn't done that to is Band of Brothers). 
> 
> Exams are slowly killing me- I had my first one yesterday and am now busy second-guessing every single thing I wrote in it, so that's fun! Have another one tomorrow, and the wall above my desk is covered in post-its with all the equations I need to remember...
> 
> On the plus side, there are more stories to come after this! I'll probably be a week or two whilst I tidy things up, but then I have the two AUs I've talked about at least.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking around with me.


End file.
